The rough hands of Alastar sifted through a small collection of letters, tied hurriedly with worn string and bearing various postmarkings and scribbling’s upon them. A fair many had obscured ‘return to sender’ stamps, abused by the rain and careless hands and likely cast aside for months on end at the local muggle mail depot. Those from wizarding folk were written upon with the greatest care in the finest of maroon inks, as though a recipient should feel compelled to satisfy their curiosity of them. Unfortunately for the senders, Alastar felt in no way inquisitive and after ripping those worthy of his time open at the seal, stuffed them back into a pile and re-wrapped the string around them. It began to dawn upon the Irishman that he had an abundance of nothingness in all four corners of his life; a notion that would drive many men into the arms of any maiden who would offer themselves to him. Alastar was at heart, a boy with no intention of settling into the laborious lifestyles that people forced upon themselves to find meaning in their existence. Never. It was far more attractive to live in style. Viva la resistance. Alastar had never had any natural inclination towards anarchy and rebellion, save a short period as a teenager, but he was far from holding the ideals of the good citizen’s guide to society.

In ye olde days when Alastar had been in his early twenties, it wasn’t so peculiar or unheard of that he would hole up in places like Kings Cross just to pass the time between journeys. Something about the lingering stench of engine oil and cold, plastic seating with buttock grooves outdone the comfort of travelling through the floo network. Trains in muggle London were sardine cans burrowing from place to place screeching like one would imagine an express shuttle to hell would. The tranquillity was only then heightened by the buskers with beaten guitars who would invade the carriages, the infants who went off like clockwork and the influx of students travelling in and out of London. It was perfect for the man who craved the illusion of anonymity.

For the moment, it was a mixture of business and pleasure, as Alastar had come into a merchant of the muggle edge of the world who had supplied some top notch replicas of designer watches. It wasn’t suiting of a man his age, of that he was aware, but the chance of a pay cheque at the end of the month was looking slim never mind returning to Ireland. There was nothing a good salesman wouldn’t sell. In the past, he would’ve made the mistake of selling from a briefcase on the edge of the entrance doors, drawing the attention of every security official in Kings Cross, but Alastar was far more cautious. The muggle authorities were little to fret over but not often the Ministry would catch sight of the exploitation of the poor unsuspecting creatures and magical folk like Alastar trying to sell miraculously self-winding watches with an array of wonderful and yet impossible features. If it weren’t for the interference of the Ministry, the muggles would have been able to share in some of the pleasures of the magical world. And yet those who perverted magical law were called the villains. Hours previous, Alastar had tried to indulge the muggles at what was locally known as Charlie’s market, a tight alleyway packed tightly edge to edge with rickety stalls of local people trying to sell their unwanted belongings or small business items. There seemed to be the understanding between the merchants and London police that illegitimate goods would be traded regardless of any strategy they may take to crack down on it.

As he fell back against the nearest wall, Alastar resumed a casual expression whilst beneath a pair of red sunglasses attempted to catch sight of an old friend. Jarvis was a wizard himself, much like Alastar in his interests, who had stumbled into his life with great timing; when reaching the cold-beans-in-a-tin-for-dinner stage, Jarvis had hooked Alastar up with some connections to keep him afloat with casual work. The last conversation, he recalled was at the Leaky Cauldron and had involved the words ‘Kin’s Cross’, ‘bags full o’galleons’ and ‘work fer yeh’. Drunkspeak hadn’t yet been perfected to an exact science where Alastar and his business comrades were concerned but having been stuck at the station for near half an hour, he was doubtful that Jarvis’ offer was a genuine one rather than an attempt to bond with him over a round of drinks. Friendship in all its glory was really just a tenuous and desperate pursuit in that respect and as he was quick to learn, not the style of relationship to make business with. Without the probability that Jarvis would even show, Alastar decided to take the edge of his caffeine quivers by taking a seat outside the nearest java place. With a screech, he pulled back the chrome, tinny silver chair and seated himself on the outer most part of the coffee shop. Way to stay inconspicuous, man.

Kings Cross wasn't a usual place for Lexus to sell her wares, the pretty little bottles of health drink usually sold like hot cakes outside of her London flat but with the weather dropping in temperature the amount of money she made there just wasn't worth freezing her butt off. So instead she decided to find somewhere she could be warm and still be able to make money. It had been working so far. She had brought six dozen bottles with her and had only two dozen left. Her wallet was overflowing with notes, she wondered what it would take to transfer all of them into galleons.

With the remaining bottles safely packed away in an over the shoulder satchel Lexus made it over to a coffee stand. She ordered herself a hot cocoa, having never been one for actually drinking coffee. She searched the small eatery area that was set up outside the stand. The station was bustling as usual and apparently Londoners were just as crazy for coffee as Torontonians. Almost made her feel a little home sick.

Holding her cocoa up near her chest to keep herself warm she began to wander through the tables checking close up if any place was free. The entire place seemed to filled, much to her dismay. She let out a long sigh before she caught sight of a ridiculously handsom man sitting by himself. She had been out on her own for about a week now since having her big fight with Jonas, selling her health drinks to make sure she had enough money to make rent at the end of the month.

She placed a smile on her lightly frosted lips, her golden blonde hair swept back in an elaborately braided ponytail. There was a little glint her her pale blue eyes, "sorry to bother you but mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full." She spoke sweetly, her Canadian accent sticking out like a sore thumb in the hub of English lilts.

There sailed by close to thousands of commuters, all different and yet the same in their own ways. There were business men and women clad in sleek suits, overburdened by suitcases full of minutes, briefings, agendas, plans and whatever else they plagued their days with. It seemed detrimental to their success to be a worker bee when no doubt some of them may be capable of much more. Still, it scared people to branch out and explore themselves. If Alastar had gone down that road, he would’ve been balding and overweight with only the prospect of four weeks a year of extreme sports or golfing tours or theatre breaks. Screw that. He much preferred his line of work, kept him interesting.

Alastar stirred two sugars into his grande black coffee, throwing almost half of it back in one go. The lure of frothy, cream-filled, diabetes-inducing beverages had never quite caught him in the same way it seemed to affect everyone else. Coffee was complicated by all kinds of shit, including milk. Never a perfect gentleman, he whipped the liquid from his top lip with the back of his hand and set it down on the table. The noise of heavy feet and talking dulled down to allow Alastar to wonder why his nephew, Connor hadn’t sent an owl as yet. He may not have been too good a man in his lifestyle at times but he never neglected his family to date. The kid’s first quidditch match of the season for Ravenclaw was next week, to which Alastar intended on being at Hogwarts for. There was a combination of bitterness and excitement at the thought of quidditch; as a promising beater Alastar had been let go from the team after a knee injury but was still fanatic about the sport. Quidditch as well as muggle sports were passed down in the ó Dálaigh family and if you weren’t for playing on a team, you should’ve been a daughter.

Whilst the charts on the wall flipped wildly with information on train arrivals and departures, a small voice came over the rush of people filing in and out. A woman at that. She looked to Alastar like one of those sweet ones you would take home to your ma, and he wasn’t sure he was the type of man to be taking anyone’s daughter home at all. She smiled, weakening his stony exterior slightly. With another screech (no level of noise could’ve distracted the people around them anyway) he pushed out a chair slowly with his foot and gestured her down in front of him. He was no gentleman, but a good man was hard to find. Especially in London.

sorry to bother you… To this, he grinned and took another sip of coffee, “I’m the usually the one who does the bothering.” Eyes skimmed her person for signs of her profession and with no suitcase, she presented as quite the mystery but really everyone was here for a reason. “Business or pleasure?”

Even in the throng of passengers Lexus stood out. Her shock of honey gold hair, her casual dress of jeans, knee high boots and a form fitting sweater along with no obvious sign of being a business woman. If it weren't for the fact that she wasn't leaden down with large suitcases people would likely have dismissed her as a tourist. While her accent may have pegged her as such she was far from a tourist, at least not now. She had been living in the UK for almost two years now, having spent the majority of her first year touring the countryside staying away from any obvious signs of civilization. It made it easier not to kill anyone during the full moon when she wasn't near anyone to begin with.

She placed her hot cocoa on the table and slung her satchel on the side of the chair he had pushed out for her. She pulled it out a little further and then sat down. She offered him another smile and chuckled softly at his comment, "I'm sure you say that to all the pretty ladies." Oh how much she missed flirting with handsome muggles. While she hadn't confunded a muggles since her first run in with Jonas she had gone back to getting her jollies from muggle men. They were so much less complicated than wizards and they never questioned the myriad of scars that covered her back. Show claw and teeth marks to a wizard and most could automatically identify the mark of a werewolf.

Lexus took a sip of her cocoa and offered Alastar another smile before gesturing to the satchel hanging off her chair, "Business, well as best as I can. I kinda don't have a job right now so I've been seeling these," She removed one of the nicely decorated glass bottles that held the brilliantly blue liquid. Most muggles had equated it to blue Gatorade, Lexus hadn't minded, "Health drinks. Thankfully people have been going crazy for them. They'll give you the best boost you've ever had." She placed the bottle on the table in front of him. It helped that the 'drink' was actually a special brew of health potion Lexus had learned to make back home amoung the Shaman tribe she had lived with. Most wizards in London had never seen anything like it which had help her keep off the Ministry's radar.

"How bout you?"

"I'm sure you say that to all the pretty ladies. Alastar seemed to grimace at this although it wasn't for a bad taste she had put in his mouth rather than that he didn't have the mind to respond in the way she probably wanted him to. With another sip of his coffee, which proved too hot for the lining of his tongue, he huskily replied, "Well, I never said you were pretty." His tone wasn't one of outright rudeness but just the run of the mill smartarse remark he preferred to come back with. It was better than the nauseating flirting that went on between men and women. Two decades of lingering within the serious relationship zone with a whole line of women had turned the Irishman to the idea that every female came with their own agenda and was hellbent on fulfilling it. Flirting was just a stepping stone to trouble.

With a cock of his head, Alastar dropped his gaze on the satchel, following the small vial as it glimmered in the woman's hands. Without too much hesitation, perfume or a room fragrance, and on second thought maybe she was just a fancy alcoholic. Tough call. He half-thought to bring out some of his own concoctions, the few that he had on his person that is, if she weren't a potential muggle. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish magic from non-magic folk, unless they were outwardly bizarre as some were, however the strange ones tended to stay out of muggle locations as it was. Alastar wasn't one for robes and pointed hats. His last stint in that sort of gear had been in Hogwarts at the leaving ceremony, and those robes were frightful enough for any seventeen year old lad.

"Do you mind...?" asked Alastar, taking the small bottle from her hand without waiting. His curiosity had gotten the better of him once again. With a clunk noise, he eased the top from the bottle and dipped his nose down to the neck to take in its scent. If there was anything to it, he would catch it in the ingredients. "A health drink, eh?" He fell back with a look of what seemed like suspicion, until he smiled, "Of course they sell well -- we're in London. We're all sushi dieting, borderline bullimic robots with nothing better to do but try and fit our pilates class between our careers and speed dating nights."

By this point he was almost certain he was dealing with a witch, although he was never ever one to jump to conclusions. To assume makes an ass of 'me' and 'u'. It touched him that she was kind enough to pretend she was interested in what he did, or maybe she genuinely was. He couldn't tell. Something about sweet women threw him off guard. "Our lines of work aren't all too different, if you want to know the truth, although I'm not sure my drinks give people a boost."

He carefully placed the glass vial on the table in front of the woman and continued, "You have a very patchy American accent, y'know." Even for a Canadian. He loved to jilt people's nerves with things like this.

Lexus made a curious face at his comment wondering if he was trying to be smart or just a jack ass. She found it hard to tell sometimes especially when men had accents. As much as she loved watching Brit Coms with her Mom and Dad on Sunday nights she still didn't always understand European humor. It also didn't help that the guy wasn't British. She was really bad at distinguishing between all the United Kingdom accents but she was certain his wasn't British, whether Scottish or Irish she couldn't tell though.

She watched him curiously as he smelled the bottle. She had been told that it smelt differently to each person that took a whiff of it much like love potions did. Apparently it smelled like whatever you thought was healthy. For Lexus it had always smelled like a mixture of fresh fruits. She almost wanted to ask him what it smelled like for him but figured that would be a very weird question to ask even if he was a muggle.

Lexus chuckled as his description of the common Londoner. It sure beat the average description people gave for Americans or even the wonderfully stereotypical view people had of Canadians, "Almost makes me miss being back home, though I doubt these little babies would sell as well as they do here." Not to mention the laws against them. The Canadian Ministry banned the selling of shamanic goods anywhere that wasn't predesignated. She didn't agree with it but then the shamans were often seen as lesser magic users to begin with. It was tragic really, part of that archaic pureblood backround bullocks that still trickled into modern decision making. It made her happy she never bothered to get into politics.

Lexus smirked this time not all that surprised by the comment, "Probably because I'm not America." She studied him for a moment before speaking again, "Canadian actually but most people make that mistake. I suck at placing accents. I couldn't even tell you what kind of accent you have even if my life depended on it."

The slight hint of amusement lined Alastar’s lips as the woman corrected him although admittedly his mistake hadn’t been met with the reaction he had hoped for. As the little brother of three now grown men, Alastar had endured countless years of teasing and clowning and it had become a form of bonding over time. He was still the same boy, only slightly taller and rougher around the edges, and naturally there were the added complexities of women and money now. But still, he was the same small town Irish lad when stripped to the wood.

"Almost makes me miss being back home, though I doubt these little babies would sell as well as they do here." Scrap that last part about being a gentleman. “I’d say they’d sell themselves whichever side of the puddle.” Wait, were we still talking about the vials of health drink? A gratified smirk slowly rose on the man’s lips as he wondered whether or not he might have overstepped the mark although truth be told, he preferred a woman who could hold her own whenever he was getting suggestive in conversation. Sadly, she seemed like a perfectly sweet girl absent of his profane ways, meaning talk could be slow.

The last of the coffee was devoured in one movement, Alastar giving another gasp not from its heat but rather distaste of the chill that had come over it. “Course you’re not American,” he began, “You have that cultured but harmless look about you which makes you practically English.” There was a twang to the Canadian accent that seemed to echo a British tone, and seem less harsh than the odd American accent that floated around wizarding London.

When quizzed over his own origin, Alastar fell back and laughed, for he was often regarded as having the most distinguishable accent in the room. As Carlingford was a border town, there was a peculiar lilt to Alastar’s tongue that made even the Irish second guess him. “I’m from the arsecrack of Ireland, literally, but you wouldn’t know it, eh?” He elaborated, “I don’t normally talk to strangers but we’re in London, so…” he shifted forward, “I been living here since I finished school many chapters ago now but I keeps Ireland here.” He patted his chest firmly, gesturing to his heart. “You never forget home.”

“You can’t tell me you’re here on business.” He explained. “Love, career or crime? Only the lonely stay in London in the end.”

Lexus smirked at his suggestive tone. While she didn't want to say anything afraid that she was reading into something that actually wasn't there she just nodded in response letting a slight shade of pink colour her cheeks. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy flirting with this one. She was enjoying getting back to her muggle roots as odd as that might seem to other wizards. She had grown up muggle and whenever things got weird in her life going back to what she considered normal always made her feel better. Muggle men were just simpler. They didn't care about blood status or who had a better wand, who could perform the best spells or made the most galleons. Muggle men cared about how they performed in bed, who had the better car or hotter wife and who could sneak around said wife's back to sleep with the hottest or sometimes youngest mistress.

Her blush became more pronounced when he mentioned she was practically British. She had never been a big history buff and still didn't understand why Americans had fought so hard and ruthless against the British. Canada seemed to be doing just fine, even with essentially still being part of the commonwealth. Sure the Queen didn't have the same political power as she used but she was still present in everyone's life even if it was just for the fact that she was printed on the money.

Something stirred inside Lexus when he talked about his origin. She had always been partial to Scottish and Irish men. When she fled to the UK almost two years ago now she had a fleeting dream that she'd meet a dashing foreign man that could see past all her flaws and take her into his life, make her his wife and she'd just deal with being a werewolf later. The thought of it caused the blush to turn crimson and she lowered his eyes drinking her cocoa.

She almost spit her drink out and stifled a chuckle at his question. Love - she didn't think she had ever been in love. She knew she had deep rooted feelings for Jonas but she had no idea what they were nor did she think she was ever going to see the red headed investigator again. Career - she was a potioneer that specialized in shamanic potions but there didn't seem to be much need for that here and truth be told she hadn't finished all of her training before her tribe got attacked by a pack of werewolves. Crime - now that was something she could relate to. She didn't consider herself a criminal, she had never really done anything wrong but she was still well known to the Wizengamot back home and was considered enough of a fugitive criminal that a rookie auror here in London had tried to apprehend her. Killing her parents had been pardoned, while she was guilty in all sense of the word she was put on parole due to the fact that she didn't know she was a werewolf at the time and both her parents being muggles hadn't noticed the signs either. The attacks in Montreal however were likely to get her skinned alive and hanged if she ever went back home.

She gave him a smirk and tilted her head, a sparkle in her ice blue eyes, "And if I said crime . . . ?"